Jake walks toward our table, his brown curls perfectly sleep-rumpled, his jaw arguably sharper than yesterday if that’s biologically possible. He grabs the seat next to Daniel, not even glancing my way as he says, “Morning.”
He has on jeans and another flannel shirt, this one checkered red and black, like he just came back from a hike in the woods. I catch his eye. “Chop some wood this morning?”
He pauses, confused, then says, “Yeah, actually.”
“Wait, really?” I ask.
But then Daniel turns to him and pulls a graphic novel out of his bag. “Here you go. This is the one we were talking about yesterday.”
“Cool, thanks,” Jake says, grabbing the book.
“It’s awesome. You’re going to love it. Or not. You know, no worries if not.” I stifle back a laugh at the nerdy excitement in Daniel’s voice. If there’s one thing he loves more than graphic novels, it’s introducing people to graphic novels. He leans forward, arms flexing under his Waterston College T-shirt. “Can’t wait to hear what you think.”
“What book?” I ask, leaning forward as well.
Daniel glances at me with surprise, almost like he forgot I was here. My shoulders tense. Daniel is my friend. Not just my friend—my work husband. Staffing a second holiday season together is basically as serious as saying our vows. But I feel a kernel of unease as he replies, “Sleepwalker.”
“Ooh, awesome!” My voice is too high-pitched, too enthusiastic. “What’s it about?”
“Actually, I recommended it to you last year. You never read it.”
“Oh.” The ground feels shaky again, like it did this morning at home. I scratch my neck. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” he replies, returning to his conversation with Jake.
My gut constricts. I work in a bookstore. I get book recommendations all day every day, and it’s my job to be enthusiastic about all of them. Also Daniel literally, and I mean literally, recommends graphic novels in his sleep. His girlfriend, Lola, told me so. And he said “no worries.” So I should feel no worries about forgetting his recommendation. And yet…
“Morning, y’all!” Myra calls us to attention. The children’s section has filled up. The full staff seems to be here. Myra holds a mug that says BOOK BABE as she speaks. “Thank you for coming in. I know it’s early.”
“Very early,” Sophie-Anne says. She inspects her fingernails, which are now covered in silver Sharpie.
“You’ll live,” Myra responds dryly. She then goes over all of the standard meeting stuff—schedules and shelving systems and an updated return policy, which will hopefully prevent people from returning books they’ve already read, like you dog-eared the page, and you want a refund? I’m not prejudiced against those who dog-ear, by the way. I believe in a well-placed dog-ear. But you can’t return books with bent pages and expect us to think they’re unread.
After about ten minutes, Myra says, “And if you haven’t met him yet, please be sure to introduce yourself to our newest employee, Jake Kaplan.”
Kaplan? I glance back at Jake and his brown curls and wonder if he’s Jewish. I touch my Star of David necklace. There aren’t many members of the tribe living this far south of Atlanta. It’d be nice to work with a fellow Jew; well, it’d be nice to work with him if we could actually get along.
“And last, I have some exciting news!” Myra announces. Someone coughs, and Daniel nudges my shoulder and rolls his eyes with a grin. Last time Myra had exciting news it was that we were switching from medium roast coffee to medium dark roast coffee in the break room. She’s also someone who describes NPR as titillating, but you know, we love her anyway. “We’re going to have ourselves a little competition.”
“A competition?” Suddenly I perk up. “I love winning things!”
“Who says you’ll win?” Daniel asks.
“I have a better chance than you,” I reply.
“You don’t even know what the competition is,” Jake says.
I lean toward him. “Yeah, well, you don’t even—”
“Children!” Myra calls, cutting us off. My cheeks flush, and even Jake and Daniel seem embarrassed. We all turn back to face Myra. “The store is packed for the holidays,” she continues. “But we have too many browsers and not enough buyers. I figured y’all could use some incentive. Whoever makes the most sales by Christmas will receive a cash bonus of—” She pauses, and darn it if all of us aren’t hanging onto her next words. “—two hundred fifty dollars.” Adrenaline whistles through my veins. $250 added to my $500 at home added to my next check would be more than enough to fix Barbra. And I can buy some groceries tonight, no problem. Moms won’t have to argue about it again.
I jump up out of my chair and shout, “I volunteer as tribute! How do I win?”
“You win by selling books,” Myra answers. “And, more important, by following the competition rules.” She pulls her phone out of its holder on her chair and taps the screen. “Those rules are now in your e-mail. Good luck, everyone. May the odds be ever in your favor.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
7:42 a.m.
Morning, team,
Below are the rules for the Bookselling Bonus:
Each employee is assigned a QR code that can be scanned at the register. Please pick up your stack of codes from my office.
When you hand-sell a book, give the customer a code and ask them to use it at the register.
Cashiers are not allowed to use their own codes if the customer doesn’t have a code. Yes, I will be watching, and you will be disqualified if I see this happening.
Cashiers must scan the code they are given. No “oops, I forgot.” Yes, I will be watching, and you will be disqualified if I see this happening.
The code will register the sale. We cannot register how many books were sold, so the competition is by customers not number of books.
Let me repeat that: We cannot register how many books were sold, so the competition is by customers, not number of books. If you sell ten books to one person, that’s fantastic! It’s still one point.
In case you didn’t read numbers 5 and 6, it’s one point per customer. No exceptions.
The competition ends when we close on Christmas Eve.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
7:47 a.m.
No, you cannot combine your points with another employee.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
7:49 a.m.
No, Sophie-Anne, you don’t have to participate.
Participation is optional for everyone.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
7:51 a.m.
No, Arjun, you don’t have to participate, either.
Participation is optional for everyone.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
7:54 a.m.
No, I cannot win my own competition.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
7:56 a.m.
ONE POINT PER CUSTOMER.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
7:58 a.m.
Stop e-mailing me and get to work.
Chapter Four
Jake walks out of Myra’s office and slides a batch of QR codes into his pocket.
“Huh,” I say.
“What?” he asks, pausing a few feet in front of me. He has stubble today, and I have the distinct urge to touch the stubble and see what it feels like because, as previously established, I’m totally a normal person.
Instead, I clear my throat. “You’re competing?”
“To win two hundred fifty dollars? Yes, Shoshanna. I’m competing to win two hundred fifty dollars.” I bristle as he uses the same patronizing tone as yesterday.
“Right,” I say. “Well, good luck. You’ll need it since you can
’t recommend many books.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll win customers over with my charming smile.”
I roll my eyes. “What charming smile?”
He smiles, and it is indeed a charming white-toothed smile that lights up his eyes. Between the smile and the flannel shirt he looks like he should be on the front of a Men’s Hiking magazine with a fishing pole over his shoulder and a golden retriever panting at his side. Damn you, smile. Damn you, flannel. I wish Jake had started working here over summer. Maybe he’d be wearing cargo shorts and T-shirts with borderline sexist statements instead, and there’s certainly nothing attractive about that.
“Whatever,” I say. Fantastic save, Shoshanna. Real verbal wit. I move past Jake and into Myra’s office. I’ve always loved her office, cream walls and pastel paintings, artificial plants that look deceptively real. Her shelving units, custom built low so she can reach them with ease, are neatly lined with her favorite books and knickknacks. And there’s always a crisp smell from her fresh linen plug in scent.
But Myra, usually relaxed in her domain, stares are her computer with a furrowed brow. “Um,” I clear my throat to get her attention. “May I have my codes, please?”
She glances up at me, and after a weighty pause, says, “Yes, but be sure to follow the rules so I don’t have to kick you out of the competition for not following them.”
“You have nothing to worry about. Promise.”
“Oy.” She grabs the codes from her desk and hands them over. But really—she doesn’t have anything to worry about. I’m going to play by the rules, win this bonus, and fix Barbra. “I need you on inventory. We got a big shipment in this morning, and those display tables need to stay stocked.”
“Okay!” I reply. “I’ll sell books after. I’ll take the lead in no time!”
“I’m sure you will, because you’ve…” Myra clicks around on her computer and then reads, “… ‘got this in the bag, losers.’ That’s what you e-mailed the entire staff, right?”
I gasp. “I didn’t CC you!”
“She did e-mail that,” Jake says, popping his head back into the office.
I stare hate-daggers at him. But I’m not sure they’re strong enough, so to make my message clear, I amp them up to abhorrence blades. “To clarify,” I say, straightening my shoulders, “I didn’t mean ‘losers’ in the bullying, you’re a waste of space connotation, I meant ‘losers’ in the you’re going to lose the competition and I’m going to win the competition denotation.”
“Thanks, Webster’s,” Daniel says as he passes the office with a stack of journals in his arms, the cute ones with a cat sitting on a tower of books. I was going to buy one, but I guess I shouldn’t waste cash on it now. Not that buying a notebook is ever truly wasteful.
“You know what?” Myra asks. “Shoshanna, take Jake with you. Show him the inventory ropes.”
I manage to bite back a whiny why because Myra is literally only asking me to do my job. “Sure,” I answer instead, and then turn out of the office and tug the edge of Jake’s shirt. “C’mon, Mountain Man.”
“Mountain Man?” he asks.
“Do you have a golden retriever?”
He narrows his eyes. “Huh?”
I sigh and walk past him. “Never mind. Follow me.”
We head to the storage room, which is behind the break room, which is fun because you get to walk through an eighty-degree inferno and into a forty-degree freezer. I pull down the sleeves of my cardigan. The storage room has a large garage door that opens up to a back alley behind the mall. Malls are like superboring versions of Disney World. There are all these hidden hallways and alleys shoppers don’t know about, a labyrinth designed to keep stores stocked and remove trash without shoppers ever seeing it. Kind of kills the retail buzz if customers know how much waste it takes to satisfy their high.
“Cold.” Jake rubs his hands together.
“You could get us coffees from the break room,” I suggest.
I expect him to say no, but he surprises me and says, “Good call.”
Huh. Maybe things will ease up between us. Maybe we’re like archrivals Nathaniel and Rose from Time Stands Still, enemies who begrudgingly accept the necessity of their coexistence and become wary friends. Our necessity being unboxing books, not saving our town from a never-ending, encapsulated time freeze.
“Three sugars, three creams!” I call after Jake as he walks back into the break room. Smiling and humming, I grab a box cutter and open the first shipment, careful not to press too hard and cut through the actual stock. Oh, the books that have been ruined by a box cutter.
Eh. A stack of a New York Times bestselling thriller series. No judgment, truly. People love these books. They’re just not my favorites. I move on to the next box and the next, revealing more stacks of thrillers and romance bestsellers and Christmas-themed picture books.
Jake returns with two cups of coffee. He passes me one, and I immediately narrow my eyes. “This feels light,” I say, and lift the cap to inspect. “Jake, there’s only a quarter cup of coffee in here. And it looks black.” I take a sip. Bitter as heck. “Are we out of creamer?”
He shrugs. “There wasn’t any left.”
“Oh, well could you at least put more coffee in here? And sugar, please.”
“Sorry, pot was almost out.”
I pause. “Almost out?” Then I step forward, suspicious, and take his cup out of his hand, feeling the weight of it. “Your cup is full! You could’ve poured us equal amounts!”
He grabs his coffee back and takes a sip. “Mmm, three creams and three sugars. Extreme choice, but tasty.”
“Monster,” I hiss.
He grins, teeth flashing bright like a billboard for whitening, before taking another sip. I hope the coffee stains his teeth. “So, inventory. Show me the ropes, boss.”
I’m three seconds from smacking the coffee cup out of his hands. But, no. I need to stay focused. The faster we get through this inventory, the faster I can get back to the floor and sell books. A girl’s best revenge is winning a $250 cash bonus.
I point to the opened boxes. “Unpack books. Put books on the cart. Check books off the invoice. Wheel books out to the floor.”
“Right, sounds easy enough.”
Jake puts his coffee down and starts on the heavy lifting, while I open more boxes. After a few minutes of stacking and sorting, the room grows quiet. I can hear him, standing there, not working. I’m bent over a low-lying box, acutely aware of the bent-over part, and grateful I always wear leggings under my dresses in winter.
I straighten up and turn to Jake. “Can I help you?”
“Why aren’t you working?” he asks.
“I am working. I’m opening boxes.”
“Yeah, but that’s the easy part.”
Exactly.
“Incorrect,” I say. “It takes precise skill to open boxes without damaging the stock. Maybe in a couple months you’ll be up for it. If you somehow stick around.”
“Oh, I’m sticking around,” Jake replies. He’s holding seven hardbacks in the crook of his arm. I can only get four in mine. Show-off. He puts them down on a cart and then steps toward me. “Let me open a box.”
“No.”
“C’mon, Shosh, let me try.”
“Don’t use my nickname.”
He steps forward once more, and I inhale. He smells like baked goods again, all sweet and cinnamony. Is there a sticky-bun deodorant I don’t know about?
“Fine. I won’t use your nickname.” His eyes lock on mine. “Shoshanna.”
I swallow hard, skin tingling. Yeah, that’s worse.
Just to get breathing room, I pass him the box cutter and step back. “Here.”
He seems genuinely excited, enthusiasm flashing in his eyes with the cute glee of a Christian kid on Christmas morning. “Press lightly,” I instruct as he leans over an unopened box. “You want to barely slice the tape, all right? If you press hard, you could—”
“Uh-oh,” J
ake says. He steps backs and looks at me with a guilty expression.
“Uh-oh?” I ask. “Seriously?” I rush forward and check the box. Please don’t be the restock of Christmas Killings—they’ve been flying off the shelves faster than fictitious serial killer Karl Kringle can murder yuletide lovers. But no, it’s not Christmas Killings. It’s another box of picture books, and they aren’t damaged.
Jake smirks. “Got ya.”
A murderous feeling floods through me, and I’m super glad he’s holding the box cutter so I don’t become a butcher like Karl Kringle. Breathing hard, I lock eyes with Jake and calmly say, “Put these on the cart.”
“That’s it?” he asks. “No yelling?”
I shrug. “I’m more mature than that.”
His eyes widen a bit in surprise. “Okay.”
Jake unpacks the box, and as quietly as possible, I pick up his coffee cup from the floor behind him and then walk over to the trash can at the other end of the room. “Hey, Jake,” I say.
He spins around, eyes on me and then the cup. “Don’t—” He tries to stop me.
I smile as I dump his coffee in the trash.
* * *
“I might be claustrophobic,” I tell Geraldine as we squeeze through hordes of shoppers. Every hallway is clogged with foot traffic, and there are so many big sweaters and stuffed shopping bags and blinking decorations I can barely see straight. I press my arms together, trying to make myself as small as possible so the people barreling past don’t knock into my shoulders.
“I didn’t know this many people still shopped at the mall,” Geraldine replies. She only started working here last summer, so this is her first time experiencing the mad holiday rush. “Don’t they know the Internet exists?”
“It’s DD Week.”
Recommended for You Page 4
